From the Diary of a Ranger
by A Newt
Summary: The first night of the Slowpoke harvest does not bode well for Ranger Agle and her partner Bracken. New to Alola, the two are yet to become comfortable with the islanders' tradition of cleaving off Slowpoke tails in the name of fine cuisine. Unfortunately for Agle, the night was only just beginning.


The Diary of a Ranger

Today was the first of the Slowpoke harvest. Every Malasada shop overflowed with drunks and cleavers, stumbling, swiping, a mass of stumped pink tails ringing their necks.

"The 'pokes are fine."

Chief's gravelled voice churned my belly at last issue.

"They grow back their tails in a fortnight. It's tradition here. Let it be."

Murmurs. Discontent. I'm not the only one opposed. A rally of Alolans waited outside, demanding we rangers act. That it is our responsibility to protect Pokemon and here we are, waving the butchers to the beach with a smile and a nod.

I can't stand it.

Bracken pulled me over afterwards.

"The look on your face. You know murdering the locals won't help you save anything in the long run."

"I always was more of a short term kind of gal."

"Agle, don't. Do anything stupid, I mean. Your partner's halfway responsible for you, you know?"

Bless Bracken. I have, still have a job thanks to her level head. After what happened with the Trubbish in Unova. Corporate heads didn't take kindly to having their offices turned to the perfect Trubbish habitat. Thought they would take it fine considering the Trubbish evolved from their garbage in the first place.

Chief dismissed us and we went on shift. Bracken and I hadn't been assigned to the beaches at least. Most of us "sensitive" rangers were sent up the mountain, into the jungles. We went to the city.

It worked out for the first bit. All the hubbub was off the city streets. We scolded some kids for tossing pebbles at a Meowth on a windowsill, but that was more for their benefit than the feline's. Looked right ready to claw their lips off.

Bracken used her style to calm it and send it scampering, I took down the kids' names. More for show than follow-up. Though it is good to keep a record.

The hours ticked on with nothing but a nervous trainer to entertain us. He yelped at each Pichu that rustled the grass while his back was turned. Until the Malasada shops went adult only.

The lights came on as the sun set and the pink tail collectors came in like the tide.

"Ignore them." Bracken watched me. "The deed is done. You can't do nothing now."

The grease of the Slowpokes' blood stained shirt and pants. Tails wiggled together, strung up at their waists or throats, some wagging from overstuffed item bags.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

Until the Malasada shopkeep called.

"Rangers!"

His hands and apron were dotted with flour and sweat ran the creases on his face.

"Sir?" Bracken took his proffered hand, readjusting the style at her waist.

"It's getting out of hand. People are too excitable from the harvest. I need you to help get the calm back."

"Are there Pokemon in danger?" I asked the same time Bracken said, "Sound like you need the police."

"If I go for the police, half my shop will be destroyed by the time I get back! I need a pair of uniforms. You go in and calm them down. No one will think anything of it." He nodded, clenching Bracken's hand between both of his own. "And they have Pokemon. They may not be out, but this could be pre-emptive. Stop any from possibly getting hurt!"

"Good enough for me." I strode past the shopkeep, ignoring Bracken's exasperated sigh.

The crowd inside shoved and yelled, clinking glasses and brandishing bouquets of pink tails. I felt Bracken enter behind me, muttering about the smell of spilled pineapple liquor.

"Oi!" My yell and the sight of our blazing red vests brought the swell to a quiet stand still.

"Alright. You lot."

Every eye met mine. Some frightened, some furious. Most, just drunk.

"You're celebrating. Understandable. But you're destroying this man's shop. Not to mention you're all carrying Pokemon. Get a dent on one of those balls and we'll have every right to take you in to the Chief."

A few heads bobbed acknowledgment of my words.

"Another stool falls," I kicked the downed seat in my path. "And I'll personally haul the culprit to the station."

They settled fine enough after that, but the owner wanted to keep us close, saying our vests were a powerful reminder to drunk minds.

Bracken declined. Pineapple churns her stomach, bless her anyway. Told me she'd be just down the block on patrol if I needed her or she, me.

Leaving me with that mess. 76. I counted 76 tails in there. Who knows how many more were stuffed away in the bags at their feet.

A crowd of necklace-bearing scum grouped in the middle of the shop, listening to a man in his twenties with spiked yellow hair. He lacked the tan of most Alolans. A foreigner, dropped in for the festival no doubt. He flopped a tail back and forth in his hands, pausing to measure it against his forearm.

"Biggest 'poke I ever seen." He said, flexing the pink flesh. "Scumming around in the water by the rocks, nosing out Pyukumuku. Didn't even turn its head. Not until it was a wee bit shorter."

The butchers laughed together. I took the shopkeep's proffered drink, needing something sweet to wash the bitterness from my mouth.

"What have you got there?"

A woman pointed to Yellow-hair's item bag. He grinned, flashing artificially straightened teeth.

"That,"

The group leaned in conspiratorially and I edged closer.

"Is a shiny 'poke tail."

The group gasped and glanced around to see if anyone else had heard. I averted my eyes, staring hard into the yellow dregs of my drink.

"Where in the island did you find a shiny Slowpoke?"

"Up the mountain. There's a spring in those rocks where I found it drinking, just before dark here. But keep it to yourself. I don't need your Skull thugs hearing about this and jumping me on the way home."

He stuffed the orange end back in his bag.

A shiny Slowpoke would indeed cause a stir on the island. I would have reported it for the sake of the critter, if it hadn't been for what they said next.

"What's wrong with the end? It looks a bit burnt."

The colour must have drained from my face. The wooden cup slid from my fingers and tipped on the counter and I stomped over, sliding through their shoulders to see Yellow-hair's face.

"I'd like a closer look at that tail."

He shrugged and handed it over.

"Just don't go flashing it about."

Orange and smooth on top, cream and flakey on bottom. The tip blackened from the last curl of flame to lick its side.

"This isn't a Slowpoke tail." The words curdled in my throat. "It's-"

Dead.

"It's,"

Dead.

"A Charmander's."


End file.
